


Keep My Feet Upon the Ground

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Dissociation, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Out of Body Experiences, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and that's okay, no bards were harmed in the making of this fic, sometimes people are sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27439345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: Sometimes Jaskier isn't good at being... Jaskier.Sometimes everything gets slow around him, and his body doesn't feel like his own, and it's all that he can do to put one foot in front of the other and keep walking down the Path. Geralt is getting good at noticing the not-Jaskier days, though. Sometimes, it's even enough.(Jaskier has Sad Days and that's okay.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 255





	Keep My Feet Upon the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: depression, dissociation, spiraling thoughts. No one gets hurts and everything will be okay eventually

Sometimes Jaskier isn't very good at being... Jaskier.

He'd never say that out loud to anyone, because it sounds like absolute horseshit and he knows it. How can someone find it difficult to keep up with their own existence? No one else seems to struggle with that, at least not how Jaskier does, but he can't think of any other way to say it. Sometimes, he just wakes up in the morning and everything feels like the time he got in the way of that weird slime monster Geralt was fighting and got covered in a thick, gluey slime that slowed all of his actions down. When that happened, it had taken hours of scrubbing himself clean in the river before he could move without feeling the effort was gargantuan.

But when the problem is in his head, there's no amount of scrubbing that can get him clean. He's tried that before, and it hasn't worked for shit. The only difference that rubbing the soap over his body with all the force his body can muster ever makes is turning his skin raw and sore. He returns to Geralt looking scalded and still feeling far away, and Geralt frowns, and Jaskier pretends that he doesn't notice so that he doesn't have to answer for himself.

And for all of Geralt's faults --which are many, Jaskier has no problem telling you, though he loves the witcher to the moon and back-- he  _ does _ notice. It had taken him long enough to cotton on to the fact that Jaskier was madly in love with him, but now that they're together, he gets better and better about reading Jaskier. Whether it's his body language or his scent or the tone of his voice, Geralt is slowly becoming an expert in the ancient and unappreciated art of Bard Interpretation. Jaskier sees his effort, watches him struggling to sift through all of the myriad thoughts and emotions Jaskier experiences on a daily basis, and loves him even more for that.

So Geralt notices, most of the time, on those days where Jaskier feels a little bit outside of his own body. He watches him carefully, and tries to fill the unfamiliar silence around Jaskier with his own stilted words, and does his best to be sweet, in his own Geralt-y way. Jaskier knows how to read him, too. He knows that the extra hour of rest by the side of the road at lunchtime is his bouquet of flowers, just like the unprompted story of the time Geralt found a field of archespores is a whispered declaration of love. He sees that, and he hears that, and he appreciates it, really.

Sometimes it still just... isn't enough.

Today is one of those days, and he must look terrible, because Geralt doesn't even put up a fuss about stopping in the little town to spend the night at an inn despite their coin being less than plentiful at the moment. He doesn't even make Jaskier  _ ask. _ He just steers Roach down the fork in the path that leads them into town, with Jaskier trudging along behind them both, and makes his way to the building with the wooden sign with the word INN scratched into it in childlike scrawl.

While Geralt goes in to haggle with the no doubt grumpy podunk farmer who runs the place, Jaskier stands outside with Roach and busies himself burying his face in her mane. She's sweaty from the ride, and he should probably be keeping an eye out for the bustle of people around them, but he can't bring himself to. He's busy having an argument inside of his head, berating himself for allowing Geralt to stop on his account while also knowing that it's probably necessary. He's not sure how much farther he could go.

Jaskier would never say it to Geralt, because he doesn't have the words to describe it. It's just that the tether between himself and what's real is so threadbare today that if he keeps walking for too much longer, his feet might accidentally step too hard and then his body would keep right on walking without Jaskier in it. He doesn't want to be made a ghost.

A hand brushes across Jaskier's back, and even though he would recognize the warm span of it anywhere, Jaskier finds himself flexing away from it on instinct. He hates himself for that as soon as he does it. Geralt has more than enough of people shying away from him in his life, and now Jaskier is adding insult to injury by doing that, too. Not to mention, he  _ likes _ being touched by Geralt. He tries to take it back, to move back a little so that he can feel Geralt's hand on him again, but it's already gone. Geralt knows how to take a hint. Jaskier hates himself for that, too.

"I got us a room," Geralt says, voice neutral. Bland. Careful. “I’d like to— can you—“ 

He seems to be stumbling over his words as he tries to dance around Jaskier’s mood, so Jaskier does his best to put it right. He lifts his head from the safety of Roach’s neck and purposely turns up the corners of his mouth into a smile that he aims at Geralt. “You take care of Roach, I’ll take the bags in, yes? What’s the dinner situation looking like in this two-horse-if you-count-Roach town?” The performance exhausts him. He wants to close his eyes and sleep for a long, long time. 

Geralt nods, still frowning at Jaskier, and hands him as many of the bags as Jaskier can carry. It isn't all of them --Jaskier isn't strong enough to carry around 200 pounds of witcher gear like it's nothing-- but the weight of them as Jaskier walks into the inn and up the stairs to the room the inkeep directs him to is oddly comforting. It's grounding to have the same weight pressing down on his body as there is pressing down on his heart today. The symmetry makes a little more sense.

When Jaskier gets upstairs and opens the door to his and Geralt's room, the sight that greets him drains whatever remaining reserve of strength he had left in him. Two beds. It's a simple thing, a silly thing, but the sight of those two tiny twin beds makes Jaskier feel like his heart has cracked down the middle into two identical pieces to match.

One for Geralt and one for him, as far away from each other as the little room will allow. A year ago Jaskier wouldn't have noticed, and wouldn't have cared; they were still dancing around each other and sharing a bed was a little too like honesty for both of them. Ever since the first time Geralt had grabbed him and kissed him, though, they've never asked for two beds again. Even their bedrolls get laid out side by side when they're on the road. Jaskier likes to fall asleep to the slow and steady thudding of a witcher heartbeat, and Geralt always curls around his warmth like Jaskier is his own. That's just the way it works between them. 

But now, today, there are two beds, and Jaskier is all too clear about what that means. Rooms with two beds are always more expensive, with space at a premium in most tiny inns and taverns. For him to be standing in this room right now, looking at these two beds, it means that Geralt paid  _ extra _ coin so that he wouldn't have to lay beside Jaskier tonight. He's been a sad sack all day and now he's being punished for it.

He can't blame Geralt, of course, Jaskier reflects as he forces his heavy limbs to move around the room and get everything settled. Why would Geralt  _ want _ to sleep with him? Especially after Jaskier had drawn away from him like that earlier. Of course he's angry with Jaskier, for being moody and tired and useless and  _ Jaskier. _ He hadn't said anything about it, he was being kind in that Geralt way of his again, but there could be no mistaking what this is.

Jaskier's throat gets tight with the urge to cry for the hundredth time today, but he ignores it to prepare the room. Geralt's stuff goes by the bed closest to the fireplace, which Jaskier coaxes to life. Geralt gets so cold with his low metabolism, he'll need it. He can have the extra blanket the room provides, too. He'll get more use out of it than Jaskier, who will be cold tonight either way.

But the distraction of busyness doesn't last forever, and as soon as he stops shuffling around the room and sits down on the edge of his bed, the tears start to fall. That's fine. The more of them he gets out before Geralt comes upstairs, the easier it'll be to keep them quiet.

Except that instead of abating, the tears seem to pick up steam as they fall. Soon his sniffles turn to sobs, and Jaskier has to struggle to draw in gasping, shuddering breaths between them. It feels strange, disconnected from the rest of him, like his body has registered a pain that his mind hasn't caught up to just yet. There's no logical reason to cry like this, but that's just the way it goes sometimes. Sometimes Jaskier doesn't get to choose.

The door opens, and for a moment Jaskier tries to quiet his noise so that Geralt won't hear, but then his breath hiccups in his chest and if Geralt hadn't heard him from way out in the stable, he certainly has no doubt about it now. "Jaskier," he says softly, followed by a little punched out noise. His footsteps approach the bed, and when he reaches out to put a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, he's too busy trying to force his lungs into a normal rhythm to even shy away. "Hey, don't cry."

"Sor-ry," Jaskier hiccups, holding himself rigid like that might give him back some control. He's glad his back is to Geralt, because some dim part of him is aware that he probably looks like an ugly mess right now. "I'll pull it tog-gether, just give me a min-nute. You don't have to stay."

Geralt makes that sad noise again. "Do you want me to stay?"

It's too selfish to ask for. "You don't hav-ve to."

And because Geralt knows how to read his bard, he hears the silent yes and immediately folds himself around Jaskier, laying down in the bed behind him and pressing in close. It feels so good, even at the same time that Jaskier wants to push him away and remind him that Jaskier shouldn't be indulged. He's a solid weight against Jaskier's back, a protective presence between him and the world, and little by little, the sobs turn back into sniffles.

"You smell like sadness," Geralt rumbles a little while later, the sound strong enough that Jaskier can feel it in his own chest. He buries his nose in the side of Jaskier's neck. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Jaskier whispers truthfully. His head is throbbing and his eyes ache from the brief and violent onslaught of tears. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know."

"Is it... anything that I did?"

"No," Jaskier says immediately, nails digging into Geralt's arm for emphasis where it's thrown over Jaskier's middle. "No, I swear. It's not you. There's just something wrong with me."

"Wrong how? This town has a healer. We could go--"

"Geralt," sighs Jaskier, rolling over in his spot so that he's facing Geralt now, exposing all of his snot-faced glory. For his part, Geralt doesn't look repulsed at all, only worried. "I'm not sure a healer can fix me. It's not something that's wrong with my body, it's my mind."

"We can find you a mage, then," Geralt says, undeterred. "Maybe you were cursed. If we can break the spell--"

Jaskier reaches up and covers Geralt's mouth with the palm of his hand. "It's not a curse either. It's just... me. I'm just sad sometimes, and nothing fixes it."

Geralt covers Jaskier's hand with his own, but only so that he can kiss the palm of it and then pull it away. "Alright. Is there anything that  _ helps, _ at least?"

Jaskier loves him. It doesn't change the sadness that's eating away at his edges today, nor does it help with that bone-deep tired sensation. Everything still hurts, and it all will continue to hurt for hours or days or maybe weeks. Loving Geralt doesn't cure him of the sadness that sometimes creeps over him for no reason at all.

But it does help.

"Will you take me to the bed by the fire and let me sleep next to you?" Jaskier asks, eyes pleading. "I know it's small, but I just don't... want to sleep alone tonight."

"I can fix that," Geralt hums, already standing to oblige.

They wind up with Jaskier on his back and Geralt half draped over him like a blanket, and that helps, too. He's trapped beneath Geralt's weight, but in a way that feels good. It takes away that restlessness, that urge to just start walking and never stop. It takes away the sensation that any minute now he might float up into the sky and never be able to come down. 

Geralt's head is on his chest, and Jaskier reaches up with a hand that might be his or might be someone else's and rests his palm against Geralt's cheek, just to feel. He feels cool skin and the rasp of stubble, and the rounded angle of the corner of Geralt's jaw under one fingertip. He feels a kiss being pressed to the inside of his wrist before Geralt tilts his head back to look up at him with worry, and those golden eyes cut through Jaskier's haze, too sharp.

"I love you," Jaskier says like it's a defense.

"I know," answers Geralt.

"I mean it. I love you. Even when--" He cutes off, swallows his words. "Even when I don't know how to show it. Even when I can't."

"I know," answers Geralt.

And that's enough. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't, and it's hard to say at the start of any given day what will come of it. But today at least, to know that he's trying his best and to know that Geralt understands, that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> brought to you by your friendly neighborhood manic depressive author
> 
> If you liked this fic, go text a friend, drink a glass of water, and google "cute baby (fave animal) pictures" because self care is important, loves <3
> 
> stfustucky | tumblr  
> @stfustucky | twitter  
> Charlie Stfustucky#3055 | discord


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